


The Piano Man

by Wicked42 - Spider-Man (Wicked42)



Series: Wicked's PS4 Spider-Verse [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/M, Insomnia, Music, NOT the main ones, OC Character Death, Piano, Sadness, peter and mj get out alive promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 05:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42%20-%20Spider-Man
Summary: Peter, ever the insomniac, finds comfort in the melody of a stranger's late-night piano practice. But all good things must come to an end.Set in the PS4 universe, but with a teenager Peter Parker--hence the Homecoming tag. But it's mostly PS4, so don't get excited. XD





	The Piano Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anonymous tumblr person](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=anonymous+tumblr+person).



> Completed for this anonymous ask on Tumblr, posted below. I adored this prompt, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did! :D

 

It was the music.

Of all the noise in New York City, the nonstop cacophony of honking taxis, the near-constant rattling of the subway, the intermittent spurts of conversation as Peter swung through the streets, there was nothing like Mr. Hoseo’s music.

Peter barely knew Mr. Hoseo, in all honesty. He would have slung right by the old man’s apartment, except for that terrible August evening two years ago.

It was his fault for going to the hospital after that car dislocated his shoulder. His fault for being reckless, stupid. The bill was astronomical, and a few other unforeseen expenses meant they couldn’t pay their electric bill until Friday. Aunt May stayed late, working double shifts, so that night Peter did his homework by flashlight as the apartment got hotter and stickier, until he finally—desperately—tried to go to bed, sleep off the heat.

He really wasn’t sure why he thought that would work. On a _normal_ evening, Peter’s mind whirled with one or a thousand things, and that was when they were on _time_ with utilities.

After forty minutes of tossing and turning, sweat soaking his sheets, Aunt May stepped through the door. She whispered a rare curse, sounding tired and frustrated all at once, then peeked into his bedroom. Normally, he’d mumble hello, but he didn’t want her to know how miserable he was.

There wasn’t anything they could do about it. Not tonight.

So he laid perfectly still, breathing deep like he was already fast asleep, and when she clicked the door shut and turned on the shower—a cold one, no doubt—Peter rolled out of bed.

He felt trapped. The whole week had been stressful, and it culminated into that moment, that night, where the walls seemed to close in on him and he could just imagine Aunt May, too old to be dealing with this, too kind to complain, judging herself because even after she worked double shifts, she couldn’t afford to pay Peter’s hospital bill _and_ keep the air conditioning on.

And that was Peter’s fault.

Bone-weary and sick with guilt, Peter wiggled into his suit, the spandex gluing to his slick skin. Even outside had to be better than this.

He was halfway into the city before he realized it, which was… mildly alarming.

How long had it been since he’d gotten a good night’s sleep? Over a week, at least. MJ noticed days ago, commenting lightly on how he “looked like death.” He’d responded with something witty like, “Wow, thanks,” but she wasn’t wrong. Insomnia was a bitch, and Peter had too much to worry about to focus on sleep.

So he slung, webbing through the city on autopilot. The streets seemed to blur together, the buildings swaying even though he knew _he_ was the one wobbling. But he couldn’t go back to the apartment, not with its stifling heat and low ceilings and Aunt May crying next door.

And then—the music.

Mr. Hoseo’s music.

He played the piano, a gift from his mother that he cherished through every stage of life. Mr. Hoseo didn’t have children, or a spouse, or a dog, or a fish. He lived alone in that shabby Brooklyn apartment, a building of decaying brick and thin walls and screaming tenants.

It wasn’t unlike Peter’s home. Maybe that’s why he stopped.

He perched on the roof, gripping the edge hard enough the brick crumbled under his fingers. His mind was hazy, his balance precarious, but everything stilled as Mr. Hoseo’s music filled the air. The man left a window open—maybe on purpose—and to Peter’s feverish mind, it seemed like all of New York paused to listen.

Mr. Hoseo played. And Peter sunk onto the top of the fire escape, listening to deft fingers caressing ivory keys, coaxing a melody that soothed his soul. It was beautiful. Calming.

Peter’s eyelids began to sink.

When he awoke, the sun was just peeking over the skyline, and Peter felt focused and energetic. He peeked in on Mr. Hoseo, still a nameless stranger at this point, and saw him sleeping soundly on a faded flower couch. Must be a night owl too, then. Peter whispered a thank-you and slung himself home, stripping the suit just in time for Aunt May, heavy bags under her eyes, hair matted to her forehead, to wake him up for school.

 

* * *

 

 

Spider-Man became a frequent visitor of Mr. Hoseo, best pianist in Brooklyn. Whenever Peter couldn’t sleep, he perched on the neighboring building’s roof, crouching in shadows as he watched the old man play.

Mr. Hoseo’s apartment was dingy but bright, and the man swayed to his music, eyes closed as his fingers flew over the keys. He played from memory, kept the music soft in consideration of the neighbors, and hummed under his breath during the crescendos. Some nights he drank cold tea and played until sunrise. Others, he coughed intermittently and eased the fallboard closed and staggered into his tiny bedroom.

Mr. Hoseo had cancer, Peter later discovered.

It didn’t seem to matter to the old man.

 

* * *

 

 

One night, a few months later, Peter was sitting the opposite roof, eyes drifting shut, when the music tapered to a halt. Disappointment settled in his soul; it must be a bad night for Mr. Hoseo to quit so early, but—Peter had made the trek out almost exclusively for this.

Well, in addition to helping people. Obviously.

But when Peter heaved a sigh, pushed to his feet, hopped on the ledge, he glanced at Mr. Hoseo’s apartment one final time… only to see the old man waving at him, an amused smile tilting wrinkly lips.

Peter froze.

Oh, crap.

But Mr. Hoseo didn’t call out, or whip out a Starkphone to take a video, or act like the meaner New Yorkers and throw trash at him. He just opened the window next to his fire escape, tapped the metal railing once as an open invitation, and returned to the worn wooden stool in front of his piano.

He began to play again, his shoulders dipping and drifting as he lost himself once more in the music.

Peter glanced up and down the street, but it was nearing 3am. The place was deserted. A few lights were still on—Mr. Hoseo wasn’t the only late-nighter here—but no one was near the windows. No one seemed to care about the old man and his passion.

Peter cared. So he slung himself over to the fire escape, landing lithely on the railing. It groaned precariously under his weight, so he hopped onto the stairs instead, eye-level with the old man’s apartment.

Mr. Hoseo glanced back at him, smiled an yellow-toothed smile, and proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the night.

Smiling under his mask, Peter allowed himself to relax once again. When he woke up three hours later, the sun was peeking over the buildings and Mr. Hoseo had draped a ratty blanket over his form.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, MJ got suspicious.

“You never cared about piano before,” she said, plucking the brochure out of his hands. She examined it with a careful eye, probably thinking what neither would say: _how can you afford this?_

Peter couldn’t. This instructor was cheap compared to most, but $30 a lesson was still triple what Peter made working at the local grocery store, restocking shelves. And realistically, any extra cash he made went straight to Aunt May, straight to that hospital bill. They hadn’t had utilities cut since that first night, but it’d just take one bump in the road to throw their careful budget off balance.

And still, Peter dreamed. Mr. Hoseo played so beautifully. Peter had grown accustomed to the dips and swells of his music, had spent many nights admiring the way his fingers drifted between the keys, coaxing a unique melody out of single notes.

Peter never slept so soundly as he did on Mr. Hoseo’s fire escape.

So he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, if _he_ learned to play, he could ease his frantic mind, soften his worries, calm his stress. Maybe if he played for Aunt May, they’d both get a lovely night’s sleep.

“I like piano,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

MJ raised an eyebrow. “Did something happen?”

Jeez, she was good. She might be missing her calling, looking into investigative reporting over like, a police detective. Peter pressed his lips together. “No! It was just an idea. I know it’s stupid.” He tugged the brochure from her hands, folded it into thirds, shoved it in his back pocket.

MJ crossed her arms, offering him that prying look she got sometimes. Usually when he tried to keep secrets.

Peter swallowed. “There’s a guy in Brooklyn who plays sometimes. I listen when I’m in the area.”

“How often are you in the area?”

“…A few times a month.”

Her eyebrow climbed higher.

Peter’s mouth felt dry, like he was admitting some kind of terrible addiction. “Maybe more than that. Just a bit. Just when I can’t sleep.”

“You never sleep,” she said, concern warring with exasperation.  

He shrugged noncommittally.

She pressed her lips together, eyes flicking to his pocket, to the stashed brochure. The warning bell rang overhead, and the hallways crushed with students shoving their way to homeroom. She pressed against her locker and said, offhandedly, “Can I hear him play?”

Mr. Hoseo felt kind of private, a glowing beacon cutting through the darkness of night. But… MJ was a beacon, too, bright and comforting. So Peter barely had to think about it before saying, “Yeah. I can take you. But he only plays late at night.”

“That’s my favorite time.” Her smile was dazzling.

Two nights later, they sat together across the street, on the same building Peter graced before Mr. Hoseo invited him to a front-row seat. MJ’s feet dangled off the roof’s ledge, a five story drop that didn’t faze her in the slightest. They sat shoulder to shoulder, the oddest pair in New York, listening to Mr. Hoseo’s piano.

And MJ whispered, softly, “Wow.”

“I know,” Peter replied.

That night, they didn’t sleep. Peter didn’t want to miss a single moment.

 

* * *

  

MJ did some research, finally. She hated calling Mr. Hoseo “the piano man,” hated how Peter’s unspoken alliance with the man ended at the edge of his fire escape. She wanted to write an article about him, get the world—or at least the school—to understand his talent, but Peter begged her not to.

If Mr. Hoseo wanted publicity, he’d be playing at Carnegie by now.

So they compromised. She did all the research she wanted, but she wouldn’t impart any of the wisdom unless Peter specifically asked. Anything more felt like a total invasion of the man’s valued privacy.

Still, curiosity got the better of him. He lasted a week before leaning over his cold meatloaf and whispering, nearly inaudible in the din of the cafeteria, “What’s his name?”

“Joseph Maddock Hoseo,” MJ whispered back, through the mush of her carrots.

Across the table, Harry glanced between them and rolled his eyes.

Another week passed, but it was like a leak in a dam. Peter webbed his way to MJ’s bedroom well after hours, knocked on her window, and when he had her attention he pressed a handwritten note against the glass: _what was his job?_

MJ pushed aside her late-night homework and scribbled a reply in permanent marker, holding the bold note up for him.

_Elementary school teacher._

Peter readjusted his grip on the smooth surface of her house’s wooden siding, glancing at her parents’ bedroom. Their window was dark, but her father had ears like a fennec fox. He scribbled another note, handwriting nearly illegible thanks to his precarious position.

_Music?_

MJ squinted at it and shook her head. She wrote another word on her paper, below the first note.

_History._

The crack in the dam grew larger, and more information about Mr. Hoseo’s life poured out. Fast conversations here and there, woven into the busy tapestry of their school and home lives, but no less important.

He attended a Methodist church two blocks from his house. Their organist moved, and the priest convinced Mr. Hoseo, barely fifteen, to learn the majestic instrument. His mother was tickled pink, and the church held a fundraiser so they could repair his father’s piano. It got a tiny blurb in the local newspaper, and MJ copied the clippings she found in the library.  

Mr. Hoseo was self-taught in almost everything he did. They couldn’t afford school, so he checked books out of that same library on a regular basis. Every subject imaginable, but when he applied to be a teacher at his old elementary school, his focus switched to history.

He met Sylvia, the music teacher, his first day on the job. The school released a public announcement to the parents when he proposed, and another when they were married by the same priest who encouraged him to learn piano.

MJ found Sylvia’s grave in a cemetery four blocks over. She was twenty-seven. According to medical records, she died in childbirth.

The baby didn’t make it.

Every time Peter learned something new, he’d return to Mr. Hoseo’s apartment. And every time, his view of the man shifted, his appreciation deepened. More than once, he thought about starting a conversation. The window was always open. He was welcomed on the fire escape. But—that sounded like an awkward intro.

_“Hi, Mr. Hoseo! My friend researched your whole life, and I just wanted to say—”_

Ridiculous.

So Peter kept quiet, and the dam finally burst the night of Peter’s 17th birthday. Turned out he didn’t know _everything_ about Mr. Hoseo.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a coughing night. MJ and Peter were sitting across the street, weary after Aunt May’s festive celebration, after Harry’s insanely overblown surprise party, after school and music and dancing. He couldn’t think of any better way to end the night, and MJ begged to come along.

So here they sat, pressed against each other, letting the music wash over them.

And then the keys stuttered to a halt.

Mr. Hoseo wasn’t perfect. He tripped over the notes sometimes, but he always corrected himself smoothly, strolled right through the rest of the song as if it never happened. Tonight, though, he stumbled through it.

Tonight, the music stopped.

Peter and MJ exchanged glances. From this angle, they couldn’t see Mr. Hoseo very well, but he was still swaying, as if feeling an invisible rhythm. Peter didn’t have to say a word; he just raised an eyebrow at MJ, and she nodded, expression concerned.

He left her on the roof, leaping across the wide space in one swift move.

And that’s when he realized something was gravely wrong. Mr. Hoseo wasn’t swaying to the nonexistent beat. He was coughing into his hand—and it was bright red with blood. He pushed away from the keys, as if desperate to protect his piano. His foot caught on the tattered shag carpet, and in slow-motion, he crashed to the ground.  

Across the street, MJ gasped.

Peter was there in an instant, but the man’s skin was gray, thin as paper and wrinkled with age. He gasped past a watery sound in his lungs, and Peter’s heart raced in fear.

“MJ,” he choked, knowing she couldn’t hear him. But she had his cell phone. Desperate, he sprinted to the window and nearly screamed, “MJ, call 911!”

Across the street, face pale as Mr. Hoseo’s, she flashed a thumbs-up and whipped out her phone.

Peter moved the old man onto his back, stammering through fake words of comfort. The man’s rattling breaths felt like a knife in Peter’s chest, his eyelids fluttering, and in a last moment of desperation, Peter ripped off Spider-Man’s mask.

“You’re okay, Mr. Hoseo. P-Please be okay. Okay? I need you. We need you.” Fat tears streaked down Peter’s cheeks, but the old man just offered that same toothy smile from the night they officially met.

“The music’s—in you,” he croaked.

Peter clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head so hard he swayed.

But there was no music this time.

 

* * *

  

Mr. Hoseo passed three days later.

Lung cancer. That was the last thing they had to learn about him—the condition he lived with for months, the condition that ate away at everything he was until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand, couldn’t live.

Couldn’t play.

Peter spent most of his free time outside the old man’s hospital window, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Hoseo never woke up after that night in the apartment.

Afterwards, Peter didn’t sleep for four days, sick with guilt and grief. He slung to Brooklyn every night, spent hours hunched on that opposite rooftop with shaking shoulders and choking sobs. Across the street, Mr. Hoseo’s apartment sat abandoned, silent.

It carved a hole in his heart.

 

* * *

 

 

On the fifth day, MJ tugged him into the empty girl’s locker room just before school. He was so tired, so sad, that he couldn’t even find the energy to be embarrassed by it. She pushed him onto the thin wooden bench bolted to the floor, then towered over him.

“Peter,” she said, firmly.

He braced himself for a scolding. He was too broken up about this. Harry knew something was wrong. Aunt May was getting worried. His performance as Spider-Man was slipping, too; he’d almost gotten shot last night in a mugging gone wrong, and one of the muggers escaped when a dizzy spell nearly had him collapsing on the pavement.

But MJ didn’t mention any of that.

She just dropped beside him and engulfed him in a hug.

“It’s okay to grieve,” she whispered.

Peter gripped her like a lifeline and sobbed.

 

* * *

 

 

It took a month. An entire month before Peter mustered up the courage to swing over to Mr. Hoseo’s apartment again. He tried a few times before, but whenever he got within a block, vivid memories of the old man coughing bright red blood overwhelmed him, and he’d backtrack with shaking hands and streaming tears.

 Finally, he managed it. He forced himself onto the fire escape, perched on the steps, and looked inside the apartment.

It was empty, stripped of everything Mr. Hoseo owned.

Including his piano.

Peter’s breath vanished. He should have expected that, honestly. Should have known that in New York, an apartment without a paying tenant was a luxury no landlord could afford. The bloodstained carpet had been ripped off the ancient hardwood floor, and construction equipment lined the kitchen. The owner of the building was preparing the space for someone new.

But Peter couldn’t get past the fact that the piano was gone.

He tried to track down the building owner, but the guy wasn’t willing to talk to some unpolished kid about a dead man’s possessions. MJ got a little further, scouring city records until she discovered that the “state” had claimed everything Mr. Hoseo owned.

“But what does that mean?” he asked, desperate. “Where’s the piano?”

“It’s—it’s gone, Pete. He didn’t have a will, or family. They took it, sold it, and kept the money,” MJ replied, quietly. She squeezed his arm and closed out the city’s records.

Closed out the last piece of Mr. Hoseo’s life.

 

* * *

 

 

Years passed. Peter and MJ graduated high school, went to college, graduated college, started their careers. Harry went to Europe. Peter fought Fisk, Mister Negative, the Sinister Six… Doc Ock. He quelled the Maggia uprising. MJ went to Symkaria. Peter trained Miles.

Eventually, MJ came back, and invited him to move into her apartment.

Turned out, after Symkaria, MJ had trouble sleeping too.

And then, on Peter’s 24th birthday, he came home to a massive piece of furniture pressed into the corner of MJ’s modest living room.

He stopped short, eyebrows hiking into his bangs. “Ah—MJ? Why is there a piano in our apartment?” Then he paused, blinking hard. “Wait, is this some kind of roadrunner prank? Are we going to drop this out the window onto your enemies?”

“Wow, that would be fun,” MJ drawled from the doorway to the bedroom.

Peter quirked a grin. “Seriously, what’s up?”

She rolled her eyes. “Remember how you always say Spider-Man is astute? It’s moments like these that make me think you’re full of crap.” Now she tilted her head towards the instrument. “Don’t you recognize it?”

Something stirred in Peter’s chest, and he swallowed past a suddenly dry mouth. The only piano he’d recognize was… Mr. Hoseo’s. But that was long gone. They looked for it in the weeks after his apartment was cleaned out, but came up with nothing.

And realistically, they wouldn’t have had the money to buy it anyway.

But now, Peter’s eyes settled on the newest addition to their home, and there was no mistaking it. The wood was faded in all the same spots. The ivory keys slightly yellow from the fallboard. The metal pedals scratched with use.

MJ joined him behind the couch, gripping her arms with an almost nervous smile. “I thought maybe we could restore it together, if you wanted to. But I had someone come check it out, and it plays fine.”

Peter was speechless. He gaped for several seconds, heart swelling with so much love he thought it might burst through his chest. He turned to her, crushed her in a hug, inhaled her hair and pressed a hard kiss against her lips.

“H-How did you find it?"

“Turns out, I’m a much better investigative reporter now than I was at 16.” She offered a shrug. “Go figure.”

Peter took a few tentative steps towards it. She’d moved her work desk—probably into the bedroom—and set it up against the far wall, opposite the coffee table and TV. It must have taken all day to get here, and she probably paid a fortune in moving costs. But tears pricked Peter’s eyes as he eased onto the wooden stool, reverently ran a finger over the keys.

He tried one.

A loud, clear note rang out.

His throat closed, and he choked on emotion. MJ slid beside him, pressing shoulder to shoulder like they did so many years ago, on that empty rooftop with the stars nearly invisible above and the glare of the city at their backs.

“I don’t know how to play.” His voice caught, and he swallowed hard, glancing at her.

She smirked. “That’s okay. I do.”

“What?? Since when?”

“Since you waved that stupid brochure in my face when we were teenagers. You looked like a lost puppy, and I felt bad. My mom played piano all through high school herself; didn’t take much to convince her to teach me.” MJ shrugged like it was no big deal, like she hadn’t kept a major facet of her identity a secret from him.

Peter couldn’t help but be mildly offended. “You never played for _me_.”

“Well, Mr. Hoseo played better,” she said, fingers settling on the keys. “And after he died, I just… I don’t know. You were so upset. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“MJ, you could never make things worse.” He pulled her into another hug, his hand drifting up her spine, into her hair. She smelled like lavender and wood polish, a pretty interesting mix that implied this birthday surprise was an all-day affair. His voice was soft, pleading. “Can I hear something?”

“I should hope so.” She quirked a grin and scootched him over just a bit, centering herself before the instrument. Her voice softened as she added, almost shyly, “I’ve been practicing this song just for you, Pete. In honor of Mr. Hoseo.”

She began to play.

And Peter perched on the edge of the stool, letting his eyes drift shut.

**Author's Note:**

> I... kind of adored writing this? It's so different than Hunting MJ, and it was really refreshing to get back to Peter's perspective. I've had that ask saved on my desktop for like, two weeks, so I was psyched to around to it! 
> 
> I do take requests on [my Tumblr](https://wicked-42.tumblr.com/), if you have a fic you'd like to read! Only caveat is that it has to inspire me, and who knows what'll do that. So ask away, and you never know. ;D 
> 
> I love Peter and MJ. That is all.


End file.
